


Times Like These

by leymedown



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, i mean i get pretty into detail about grantaire's depression and self-harm and stuff, oh no i wrote another hurt/comfort fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leymedown/pseuds/leymedown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s times like this where Grantaire wishes he had succeeded on that dreadful night five years ago.<br/>The times where he feels as if his heart is being squeezed and crushed in a shadowy fist, ready to burst. The times where he feels submerged underwater, trying to break through the surface only to be dragged down farther and farther. The times where he can’t do anything but drink and drink and try to fill up the whole in his life with alcohol and try to make the pain stop and try to forget, just to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Like These

It’s times like this where Grantaire wishes he had succeeded on that dreadful night five years ago.

  
The times where he feels as if his heart is being squeezed and crushed in a shadowy fist, ready to burst. The times where he feels submerged underwater, trying to break through the surface only to be dragged down farther and farther. The times where he can’t do anything but drink and drink and try to fill up the whole in his life with alcohol and try to make the pain stop and try to forget, just to forget.

  
Times where he wants to drag the razor across his skin over and over and let all the pain and darkness ooze out with the blood, staining the sheets red...red, the blood of angry men.

  
He takes a drink and closes his eyes.

  
It always hurts more when Grantaire thinks of _him_. Perfection incarnate. A god amongst men. Enjolras. He doesn’t have time for Grantaire. He can’t spare an extra thought for the pathetic drunk pining after him, groveling at his feet, hanging onto his every word. He had much more important things to do, like saving the world.

  
Grantaire doesn’t matter to him at all. Grantaire simply doesn’t matter in general. Not to anyone. Not at all.

  
He opens his eyes and takes another drink. He stares up at the ceiling, which he had painted over in swirls of color - greens, blues, purples, but never red. Red makes him think of blood, makes him think of cutting. Red makes him think of Enjolras. And thinking of either of those usually ends with him huddled in the bathroom with new scars to call his own.

  
But during times like these, he doesn’t even move to hide in the bathroom. He just lies in his bed, absently running the razor across his arm, occasionally pushing down, breaking skin. Usually, the cuts are not deep enough to scar. Those cuts are for the moments of anger and drunken clumsiness.

  
These are the times of depression. These are the times where he drowns in his depression as he is pushed into the ocean of his own melancholy and regret. These are the times where he is so unmotivated that he can’t even get completely drunk because getting out of bed to get another drink is just too much effort.

  
All he can do is wallow in the self-pity that cages him in and keeps him from becoming anything other than what he is now - a pitiful, drunken mess.

  
He lets the empty beer bottle fall from his hands onto the floor. He wishes it would shatter, for that would be terribly symbolic, but the futon he uses as a bed isn’t far enough off the ground.

  
Across the room, his phone rings. He ignores it, even though it was playing the ringtone he had set for Enjolras.

  
What seemed like moments later (when in reality half an hour had passed), his door opened. He didn’t bother looking up. In fact, he threw his arm over his eyes, shielding his face from his guest. Then he quickly pulled his sleeve down and hid the razor blade in his closed fist.

  
“Grantaire?”

  
It was Enjolras.

  
“What?” Grantaire replied sharply.

  
Enjolras sighed. “I’m sorry. I went too far. I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

  
Grantaire barked out a laugh. “Oh, _thank you_ for lowering yourself to my _worthless, pathetic level_ , dear _Apollo_ ,” Enjolras cringed at the nickname, but Grantaire still had his eyes hidden. “It’s such an _honor_ to evoke _pity_ from the marble statue himself. What a _glorious_ day this is. What a _momentous_ occasion.”

  
“Grantaire,” Enjolras chastised, “Don’t do that. I’m being serious. I feel terrible about this. Let me make it up to you.”

  
“Just leave me alone.”

  
“Grantaire - ”

  
“Leave me alone.”

  
“No.”

  
Grantaire sat up and faced him. His face was fixed in a glare, but it didn’t carry over to his eyes. Instead, his eyes were hauntingly empty. Enjolras was disturbed by the blatant hollowness he had never witnessed in another person’s gaze, yet he still retained eye contact.

  
“I want to help you,” Enjolras continued. Grantaire laughed again and shook his head.

  
“What is there to help?” he remarked bitterly, “Nothing...Nothing at all. I’m nothing.”

  
Enjolras looked down. He hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to sit at Grantaire’s side. He slowly placed his hand over Grantaire’s fist. Grantaire clenched his fist tighter, causing the razor to bite into his palm.

  
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras practically whispered. Grantaire opened his mouth to retaliate again, but suddenly Enjolras was prying his fist open.

  
He did not react when the blade in Grantaire’s hand was revealed. He just plucked the razor out of Grantaire’s open palm and pocketed it. Then he rolled the sleeve of Grantaire’s sweatshirt up as high as it would go.

  
Grantaire realized he had started to cry.

  
Enjolras looked back up at Grantaire’s face, a look of sadness and confusion plastered across this god-like features. What Grantaire did not detect, however, was the hint of understanding.

  
The moment was shattered when Enjolras asked, “Why?”

  
Grantaire shoved his sleeve back down and turned away. “Why not?”

  
When Enjolras didn’t reply, Grantaire continued.

  
“There’s nothing in this world for me. I’m a drunk and a screw up and I just don’t care. It’s...it’s not something I can deal with. The drinking helps, but...” he paused as he let out a muffled whimper, “But, it’s just not enough. It’s not...I can’t...I hate my life. I hate my life so much. It’s not gonna get better. Why try? I...I...”

  
When thin arms encircled him and pulled him against Enjolras’ chest, he found that he couldn’t continue. Instead, he allowed himself to give in to the sobs threatening to escape. Occasionally, he would let out a small explanation of ‘I can’t!’ or ‘Why?’. The soothing circles Enjolras was rubbing into his biceps did nothing to help as Grantaire found himself leaning forward to lie down and bury his head into the mattress of the futon. Enjolras let himself be pulled down as well.

  
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said again, “I’m so sorry.”

  
“You’re not. No, no, you’re not” Grantaire sobbed, “I don’t deserve your sympathy. I don’t deserve anything.”

  
Enjolras sighed, but stayed silent. A few moments passed before he spoke.

  
“That’s not true...that’s not true. You’re not worthless, I know you think you are, but you’re not.”

  
Grantaire whispered his reply so that Enjolras could barely hear. “I am to you.”

  
“No. You’re not.”

  
Grantaire pulled away and sat up again. Enjolras followed, trying to embrace him again, but he moved away.

  
“Don’t lie to me to make me feel better,” he snapped.

  
“I’m not lying,” Enjolras replied, “You mean something to me. I know I don’t show it, but you do. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

  
Grantaire paused. He knew that Enjolras was right - if he didn’t care, then he wouldn’t be here. But why did he care? Grantaire was nothing but a burden to him, dragging him down and preventing him from flourishing and thriving, from being the god he was meant to be. It made no sense.

  
“Why?” Grantaire asked, finally facing Enjolras. “I’m nothing to you. I’m a distraction and a burden. I’m useless.”

  
“You’re not. You’re so important to me. You challenge me and you help me remember that I’m human and you’re always there for me - you have no idea how much I need that, how much I need you. You help keep me going. I - ”

  
Enjolras stopped himself and jerked Grantaire into a crushing hug. Grantaire hesitantly wrapped his arms around his friend’s waist.

  
“Thank you,” Grantaire whispered.

  
“Don’t thank me.”

**Author's Note:**

> ah I'm sorry I keep writing these Grantaire has a breakdown and Enjolras comforts him it just happens especially when I'm in a bad mood gomentaire
> 
> (p.s. Enjolras almost told Grantaire 'I'm in love with you' but he's a loser and stopped himself)


End file.
